Hollow Play
by Clichex
Summary: With nowhere else to go, Hermione turns to the only other man that she can trust after all these years: her old friend and fellow fighter, Remus Lupin. But is everything as it seems to be?
1. Chapter 1

Hollow Play  
By Clichex  
Chapter One:

"A long time ago, man would listen in amazement to the sound of regular beats in his chest, never suspecting what they were. He was unable to identify himself with so alien and unfamiliar object as the body. The body was a cage, and inside that cage was something which looked, listened, feared, though, and marveled; that something, that remainder left over after the body had been accounted for, was the soul" --Milan Kundera, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being"

-------------

Draco Malfoy stumbled slightly, after Apparating into this bedroom. The night was still young, nearing the witching hour. Not that Draco worried about such things. He himself was a wizard and had been sharing (not just) his bed with the same witch for the better part of two years. Faintly, he remembered his mother 'lecturing' him on Apparating while intoxicated.

_"Apparating while impaired? By the gods, Draco!" She had clucked her tongue in disapproval, while waving a finger back and forth, gesturing no. He had tried to follow that finger with only his eyes, but in his state, his whole head jerked from side to side. Narcissa has laughed at that and had patted the boy on his head. Mumbling something about "My little dragon," and that had been that._

The memory itself had the young man shaking his head as if he were still following the slim digit. But he was no longer a boy who had gotten pissed to celebrate his coming of age. Tonight, he had drunk himself stupid in the hopes that he could get rid of her.

The room was dark, save for a few low candles. They cast shadows, throwing them every which way. Creating phantoms. He shivered. He was a melancholy drunk to be sure.

Having made his way to the lush bed that dominated the finely decorated room, he sat himself down heavily and began to take off his dragon hide boots. He had dressed simply in black robes, a fine white shirt, and impeccable trousers. He realized slowly that he was no longer in possession of his robes and could not remember where he had left them.

He started to pull his shirt over his head when the body in his bed began to move about.

The blond man cursed silently. He had ignored her presence, putting off what he had set out to do weeks ago. There would be no more stalling, not after the morning before, and certainly not after his efforts tonight. He kept his back to her, still struggling to remove his clothing.

"Draco?"

The voice was one he knew well. He had been listening to it since he was a boy. As a young man, he had learned to love that voice. It held a slight authority, but was sweetly feminine. It was unmistakable and at this moment, it was sleep coated, and pushed him closer to the edge.

When he didn't answer, she tried again.

"Draco, are you just getting in?"

The now bare-chested man grunted in response.

"Where were you?"

The little-know-it-all need to knowing everything, didn't she?

"If you insist on knowing, I was taking care of some personal matters."

He dared look at the young woman. Her hair a halo of curls and her amber eyes wide with curiosity. She looked so damned young. For a moment, he felt like a lecherous old man appraising a girl far too young for him. Far too good, too innocent.

War had damaged them all, aged them all. It had taken away years that were meant to be remembered with fondness, marked by teenaged heart break and young love. Instead, their generation, their memories, would be saturated in blood and tears, remembered by the dates of battles, and the thoughts of those who had fallen.

Hermione wasn't like the rest of them. Yes, she was damaged. More so than most realized, but war had changed her for the better. She put her resentment behind her and learned to accept the things she could not change. She was one of the few who managed to do so in the years since the war had ended.

Still incredibly bookish, she thrived where most others would fall short, but the young witch had learned to live from all the death she had encountered. She no longer hid behind the brawn of her two best friends, only ever thinking herself as the brain. Now she was a participant, where before she had not been.

Draco tore his eyes away from her and went back to undressing. For every second he was near her, the more sober he became. This made him all the more agitated.

"Personal matters? At this hour?"

The voice that had sounded so muddled with sleep was now alert.

"If you must know Hermione, I had business in Knockturn Alley."

His lover gasped and with that, the ugliest of sneers planted itself on his face. He felt the bed dip as she got up. He heard her feet pad on the floor as she moved to stand in front of him. He knew she would smell the spirits; would smell his sweat; would smell the cheap perfume worn only by a woman who would sell her love.

She crouched down in front of him, placing her small hands on his knees. She was worried and they both knew she had good reason to be.

"What were you doing there?"

"And they call you the brightest witch of our age."

The remark made her flinch. Not just from the words, but from his tone.

"I think my business there would be quite obvious, Hermione."

"I-- I don't understand?"

It was a question, the tone shy of pleading. He knew what she was thinking. She was wondering how he could be so heartless, so crass. How could a man she loved hurt her so much? He had no answers for any of those questions, but it mattered little. He knew her; she would not ask until she absolutely couldn't keep them in any longer. By then, he would think of all sorts of horrible things to say to her.

He took one of her hands in his own, which would have been a romantic gesture, if his face had not been twisted into something so ugly. He turned it over, palm side up and began stroking gently.

"What makes you think that I would enjoy sharing my bed with an incompetent lover?"

He continued to stroke her palm, even as she struggled to reclaim it. He laughed harshly and held on tighter. He did not want to hurt her, but the idea of bruising more than just her ego was tempting. It would make it easier for them both.

"You're a bastard, Malfoy."

The sound of his surname shocked him for a second, but not long enough for him to drop her hand or for his face to show it. He had become used to her tongue caressing each letter in his given name, but the fact that she reverted to Malfoy proved he had hit his mark.

"I never said otherwise, _Granger_."

He looked into her eyes then. They were wet with unshed tears that her pride would not allow to spill. She had begged for answer. She would not lower herself more than she already had, if she could possibly help it. He loved that about her; her strength. Yet he felt the urge to break her.

"You're a distraction, and frankly, I've grown bored."

"You were the one who pursued me! There were plenty of women who threw themselves at you! Why didn't you choose one of them?"

He dropped her hand suddenly and brought one of his own under her chin, tilting it up slightly, so that the wetness from her eyes leaked, and in their wake, left slightly dampened trails.

"Why would I have given them a second look when I could have the Gryffindor Princess in my bed? We were friends then, weren't we? The young Death Eater, turned spy. Befriended by one of the Light's strongest supporters. It helped put my family back in good-standing, you loved me, and I would finally know what it was like to taste you. There is no one answer, but it is quite simple Granger. I. Wanted. You."

She recoiled, as if she had been struck, and the sight pained him, but not enough to stop. He had remained dangerously calm through most of their conversation. He had decided days before that when the time came, he would be cruel, but he would not raise his voice.

"I trusted you." She bit out.

He wanted her to leave. To run. To fucking leave him alone. But she was still in front of him, looking like a wounded animal trying to understand why it's master would kick at her when she only wanted to love him.

"A bit of a mistake on your part, I'd say."

He stood up then and made his way across their room to a dresser filled with clothes.

After pulling on his own sleep wear, he tied back his hair and secured it, then sat himself on Hermione's side of the bed.

"I daresay I'm tired." He yawned, though it was forced. He was not an inch tired, but his body was heavy and rest sounded as good an idea as any.

That was her dismissal, and to his great relief, she didn't miss a beat. She pulled on her Muggle sweatshirt and, without another word, Disapparated.

The silence following the crack of her departure was defeaning and he had to get out of bed. Any noise would help.

He pointed his wand at the fireplace grate and the logs there burst into flame.

It was over.

This was what he had wanted. He had wanted to hurt her enough to make her leave him. That was imperative. She had to be the one who left. He had forced her hand, yes. But she had left him. To those who did not know any better, it would seem she had grown bored of their relationship and moved out.

But _they_ would know better.

His parents would know better and so would her friends. Who, up until this very night, had also been his own. Narcissa and Lucius would forgive their son, even though they had grown quite fond of Hermione. But the Potters? The Weasleys? They would not be so lenient.

Draco would change the wards accordingly in the morning, but for this moment, all he could do was examine his life and wonder how things had gone so wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

Hollow Play  
By Clichex  
Chapter Two:

"Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you, allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill the space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you'll ever do is understand yourself, know what it is you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way."--Janet Finch, "White Oleander"

-------------

The young witch closed her eyes and, with a pop, vanished, leaving no trace of herself behind. As quickly as she disappeared, she reappeared in a darkened alleyway somewhere in London.

She stood there for who knows how long, unseesing, trying to regain her composure. There was hitch in her breathing and she willed unwelcome tears away. This woman was not a stranger to heartbreak and in her short life, had become quite close with devastation. She had been brought into a strange world as a child, convinced she had finally found her rightful place. Only to discover there were those who opposed her very existence. She had carried on though, books and pride serving as her only companions, until fate seemed to step in. Harry and Ron had saved her and from that moment on they were each others family.

The three of them had faced every trial together, supporting one another until they could no longer stand. She had consoled Harry when Cedric had died, when Sirius had slipped through the Veil; when the world seemed to come crashing down around them. Ron stood by, steadfast and true. And though he was prone to slip-ups, the most important thing to any of them, was that he always managed to set things right.

Hermione gave up her childhood to stand side by side her two best friends. To fight for those who no longer could themselves, and for those who (they hoped) would never have to. Over the years, she had become fast friends with heartbreak and devastation. They stayed close by, coloring her world when those she loved fell, when families were destroyed, when she looked into the mirror and could no longer recognize the eyes peering back at her.

When the war had ended, she prayed on hands and knees to any deity that might be listening, that she would know what it was like to live without a heavy heart, for she could remember nothing else. And for months, it had seemed that someone had paid attention to her pleas.

The night that all seemed to change, in retrospect, was a blur, but the outcome was as clear as crystal. Her parents had been murdered in retribution. Once again, she was forced into the arms of not only her two best friends, but the arms of those awful feelings she had assumed she was rid of.

Now, years later, her chest filled with the recognition. How could her heart feel so absolutely empty, while it filled with so much pain? How was such a thing possible? How could it feel so new, when she had lived with the pain for so many years before?

When Hermione finally regained some semblance of composure, she headed for Grimmauld Place. She would have Apparated to the building directly, but she didn't trust herself in such a state to make it through the wards without splinching.

Her feet marked her progress, the sound of flesh on cold concrete breaking the night air. She counted the steps, she counted every breath, hoping to appear calm. Tears still took residence in her eyes, but she would not cry again. No, she told her herself, she would not give into her emotions.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place stood shadowed and though it had always been a foreboding presence, she could honestly say she was happy to see it.

As she walked up the steps, a warmth tingled throughout her being. The wards recognized her and she smiled sadly to herself. If all went well, this would be her home for as long as it took.

She knocked softly, hoping she wouldn't wake the portrait of Mrs. Black. After several seconds of complete silence, she knocked again, firmer this time. Again, nothing happened. There was no sign of life behind the door.

She knew she could just walk inside, close the door behind her, and commandeer one of the many guest rooms. Even though she knew she could do just that and get away with it come morning, she would feel guilty for intruding.

Hermione stood there for a few minutes, wondering what to do.

When she had come close to deciding to just take a room and explain in the morning, she heard someone on the other side of the door.

The person on the other side was obviously trying to be quiet, trying not to wake the portrait, or anyone else inhabiting the house. He cursed a few times, but finally managed to open the door.

He looked tired, but didn't he always? Dark circles under his light blue eyes and his normally tidy hair looked as though someone had decided to chew on it while he slept. Though his appearance now would betray it, Remus Lupin had started talking much better care of himself after Teddy was born.

Though the first two years after the war had been hard on him.

He had been Stupefied during the Great Battle of Hogwarts. When he finally came to, the news of his wife's death hit him hard. For months, he could barely stand to be around his son.

Only after a talking to, from both Harry and Arthur Weasley, had he come around to his senses. It had taken him longer though, to begin to really live this life again. He had gone through all the motions of living: eating, breathing, sleeping, talking, but only when necessary; only when they were expected of him.

Now, almost five years later, he looked healthier than he ever had.

He looked down on her, tired, with annoyance written plainly across his face. Hermione wasn't aware of the hour, but had noticed the sun had made no effort towards an appearance, and she suddenly felt embarrassed. Of course he was annoyed,. Who wouldn't be?

Sheepishly, she met his eyes.

"Hermione?"

His face changed, an array of emotions passing, but never settling.

He pulled the door open wide and moved out of her way, making a gesture for her to come on and then shut the door behind her.

"Hello Remus."

She smiled at him as best she could. It was a half-hearted attempt at best, and she felt the sudden urge to cry once more.

"Hermione, what's wrong? Is someone hurt?"

Remus was concerned now. She didn't have to look at him to know. His voice had dropped an octave, and though he hadn't said much since he had opened the door, each word was spoken gently. It reminded her of how her mother used to rest her hand on her forehead when she ill. Smoothing back her coarse hair. How she would murmur words of prayer when she thought Hermione was sleeping.

She she her head and the man relaxed somewhat and led her into one of the sitting rooms. They sat down at a settee and he turned to face her.

"Don't be offended, Hermione, I'm glad to see you, but do you have any idea what time it is?"

"I don't actually."

She began to blink rapidly, trying to hold back oncoming tears. "I don't know where else to go, I'm sorry."

The older man opened his arms to her and she fell into them without hesitation. One hand stroked her tangled mass of curls, while the other made slow methodical strokes along her back. She inhaled deeply, letting his scent wash over. He smelled of spice, sweat, and something distinctly male.

They sat like that for a few minutes and finally, when Remus thought she would not come undone, he pulled himself away from her slightly. Enough so he could see her face and look into her eyes.

Now tell me, what's the matter?"

She cleaned her throat and tried to right herself. Looking dignified in flimsy sleep pants and her father's old sweatshirt was not an easy feat.

"I was hoping I could stay here for a while. Not forever of course, just until I straighten some things out."

He was obviously confused, and his scarred face attested to that fact.

"Stay here? You're welcome to of course, but I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

"Draco." She forced the name out and her heart splintered at the sound of it. "He and I... I don't know. I just need somewhere to stay, Remus. I'd stay with Harry, but he and Ginny are just settling in. I know Molly would let me stay with her and Arthur, but they would ask too many questions. And Ron, oh gods, Ron-"

He didn't let her finish.

"Did he hurt you, Hermione? So help me, if he's laid a hand against you." He ground out, the smooth, even tone that personified Remus, was gone.

What could she say? That no Draco had not raised his hand, but had hurt her? That he had broken her heart, just like so many said he would? That he had bedded another woman, maybe countless others, because she had somehow failed him? Each statement was true, but none of them seemed to be the right answer.

"We've just gone our separate ways..."

This was not true.

He had gone his separate way and had left Hermione confused and seemingly all alone. He had lead her into a forest, for two years. Taking one path after the other, making plans, building dreams, and suddenly, he had decided to leave her alone and lost. With no way to get back home, the trails he had taken now so overgrown with brush. He had gone his separate way and had left her, standing still.

Remus pulled her into his arms once more, resuming the stroking of her back, bringing small comforts.

"That's our brave girl."

He kissed the top of her head and she smiled, a true, albeit sad, smile.

"Which room will I be able to use?"

He sat up and situated himself more comfortably onto the cushions. He let one arm wrap around her shoulders and she pressed the side of her face to his bare shoulder. The gesture was so familiar. How many times had she done this with Harry and Ron? How many times with Remus himself?

The answer was often in earlier times, not since she had committed herself to Draco.

She had been in other relationships before. Even going as far trying to make something work with Ron after the end of the war. But none had gotten as serious as her relationship with Draco. Certainly, none of them had ever progressed so quickly.

He was mildly possessive. Obviously, she was still as close as she could be to both boys, and to most of the men in the Order, but Draco felt the need to be included in most things. He needed to be there, to watch, to belong.

When their relationship had first started, he had already been apart of the fold and friends with most of her friends (the Order included). Even though he was aware of her relationships with the males she interacted with were strictly platonic, he would often make snide remarks if she seemed too chummy with any of her male friends. It died down after sometime, but it made him visibly uncomfortable when she was too comfortable around other men.

It felt good to just sit there with someone, anyone.

"Sirius' room, I think. You know Teddy isn't allowed in there."

Hermione gave a small laugh.

"The infamous posters of the bikini-clad supermodels?"

"Correct. He hears enough stories of his dear departed uncle from Harry. He doesn't need to be surrounded with his distaste for the rules. Not that I find anything wrong with those posters, mind."

It was his turn to laugh, and the force of it was enough to shake Hermione's head where it rested.

She really was beginning to fall asleep. His warmth and the steady sound of this breathing, mixed with the pulse of his heart, was lulling her into a semi-conscious state. She could feel her eyes becoming heavy and though she tried, she couldn't stop from closing them.

"I'll go ready his room for you."

"Mhm."

He laughed once more as he removed himself from the settee, leaving her chilled.

Once upstairs, she could hear him moving about, the noises carrying and blanketing her in a light sleep.

When she woke, she was in a bed with cool sheets, the color a dark blue. Remus was still in the room, blowing out candles, but leaving one lit.

He noticed her blinking eyes and he smiled.

"If you need anything, I'm just across the hall."

He bent down to kiss the top of her head and as his lips brushed her flesh, she grew panicked.

"Remus?"

Her voice was so soft, it was almost lost in the dark empty space inside the room.

"Yes?"

"Will you stay with me just a little while longer?"

He didn't answer for the longest time, eventually, assuming she had fallen asleep waiting for his answer, he turned to leave.

Before he could make his way out of the room however, one of her small hands had shot out and wrapped around one of his large wrists.

"Please?"

It wasn't like her to be so weak, but she needed him.

She couldn't begin to count how many times she had sat up with him after Tonks died. She couldn't count how many cups of tea she had made, or how many times she had fallen asleep with him in the library, because he had been too upset to face his mother-in-law and son.

She felt horrible to think such selfish thoughts, he had needed her. He had needed anyone would could stand to be there for him in his grief, while they suffered through their own.

She needed him, so why wasn't he helping her?

It was not exactly a secret that Remus was attracted to Hermione, no secret that he detested Draco for having what he could not. However, his feelings had only become known after Hermione and Draco had been together for sometime. He himself had admitted that acting on those feelings had been out of the question. He had felt the age difference between himself and Tonks obscene. The age difference between him and Hermione, in comparison, was laughable.

She had harbored feelings for Remus as a child, admiring him as a mentor. Throughout the war and when it came to it's head, they had worked closely together and though she had still been attracted to him, she could see the obvious attraction between he and Tonks. So she gave her feelings up as a pipe dream. After all, she was still only a child in his eyes.

One night, after getting himself entirely too pissed, he and Harry had come home late to find Hermione asleep on the couch, book still in hand. They had tried to be quiet, and later she commended them for not waking up Mrs. Black. But in their sorry attempt, she had woken.

_Harry had set himself down in an old wing-backed chair and Remus sat across from him, in it's twin._

_They rambled drunkenly, until Remus seemed to suddenly sober up._

"Look at her."

He nodded his head slightly in Hermione's direction.

"Yeah, that's our Hermione, alright."

Harry had a fond smile on his face.

"If I ever fell in love again, Harry, I'd want it be with her," he quickly caught his mistake and continued, "or with someone like her."

His voice held no trace of intoxication and Hermione could feel herself pinken slightly.

The boy sitting across from him laughed.

"Yeah, I keep telling Gin that someday, Hermione will sweep me off my feet.."

Harry began laughing again, a hiccup here and there. Remus joined him though the sound was hollow.

She had never brought up that night and didn't know if she ever would, but realizing the extent of his feelings for her left her feeling... comforted, in an odd way.

Hermione was brought back to the moment, when the bed dipped and the covered were pushed and pulled to make room for his larger frame. She sighed contentedly and relaxed.

"I'll be gone before you wake."

He said he while he settled himself into the bed. Slowly he opened his arms, giving her permission to settle where she desired. Remus opened himself to her completely, repaying her with this night and possibly many more.

Guilt washed over her once more. She knew he would not leave her, not when she needed him. No matter how much it had seemed otherwise.

"I know, Remus."

He made a soft noise in the back of throat, giving her some sort of affirmation.

Without thinking, Hermione stretched her body, letting her face rest in front of his.

"I don't think that would be wise."

All she could do was repeated her earlier sentiment (I know, Remus). Though she knew deeply that when morning came, she would ache, she couldn't force herself to care.

She pressed her lips against his.

He didn't startle, but moved his mouth in tandem with hers.

His lips were chapped and rough and he tasted faintly of cinnamon, but through all the wrong the night had seemed to bring, it was a spark of right. The tiniest spark, but it was all she needed.

Their kiss was over as quickly as it had started.

She moved back into her original position, head on his chest, eyes closed, and his arms holding her to him.

The night stretched on and before sleep overtook her, she simply whispered, "I'm sorry."

Hermione couldn't understand why she was apologizing, or even to whom, but the words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them.

And through her sleep addled brain, she didn't bother to ask if Remus was still awake. Or if he had fallen into a dreamless oblivion.


	3. Chapter 3

Hollow Play  
By Clichex  
Chapter Three

"I wait. I compose myself. My self is a thing I must now compose, as one composes a speech. What I must present is a made thing, not something born."--Margaret Atwood, "The Handmaid's Tale"

-------------

Before the war had escalated, Hermione could sleep through most anything. Though being friends with Harry and Ron made sleeping just that much harder. It was a wonder she had gotten any sleep at all since she had met them.

There had been nights after the boys had fallen asleep in their beds, in their dormitory that she had sat up, waiting. Waiting for what, she was never quite sure. But she'd stay up never the less.

Some night, this would prove useful. Harry would need to talk, or he'd wake up with pain from his scar.

When things had come to a head, sleep was harder to come by. There were patrols, missions, and the never ending work that needed to be done, that apparently only she and few others could do.

With the death count rising and nerves meeting the numbers, and then almost surpassing them, sleep was a luxury they could not always afford.

After the war, sleep was plagued with nightmares. Many nights, she had stayed up with Remus, watching him sleep. Or with Ginny as she cried about the loss of her brother, and the heartbreak of Harry's still very isolated attitude. If anyone needed something, she would be there without second thought.

Even after the excitement died down and she and the boys lived in Grimmauld Place, she would stay up. Waiting.

So even through exhaustion, Hermione woke when Remus pulled himself from bed.

It was the slight shift in the mattress and absence of heat that altered her. She turned to face him.

"You said you'd be gone before I woke," the words were soft and still not fully coherent, but he could hear each syllable perfectly.

He smiled slightly and pulled the blankets up tight around her, trying to trap the warmth in.

"I'm not here."

She yawned and stretched, arms above her head in fists as her toes curled. "You are, too, Remus Lupin."

"No, I'm most assuredly not here. I'm asleep in my own bedroom down the hall. If you listen closely, you can hear my dreadful snoring."

Hermione laughed.

It was still dark outside, though the sun was beginning to change the color of the sky slightly. It was no longer a solid black, but had become a dark shade of blue. Similar to those of the bed sheets she lay on.

"What time is it?"

"It's too early for you to be awake, Hermione. Go back to sleep."

"You told me I was sleeping, remember?

Remus sat back down on the edge of the bed, leaning over to kiss her forehead. "You are sleeping, this is all a dream."

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, the smooth tone of his voice was lulling her back to sleep.

He stayed a few more minutes, just until her breath evened out and her chest rose and fell rhythmically in slumber.

Hours later, or maybe just minutes. Though, that was doubtful. Hermione was roused from sleep.

Not from the annoyingly bright sun shining through the old window hangings, but from two sets of voices coming from either side of her.

They were familiar, comforting, but she wanted nothing better than to tell them to please, bugger off, so she could get a few more minutes of rest.

And when she finally decided to say just that, they laughed at her. The nerve of these two voices, she thought.

Opening her eyes so she could see exactly who she was going to verbally assault, she the the obviously amused faces of both Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter.

Both of them had matured greatly over the course of the last five years.

Harry was now a married man and was expecting his first child. His hair was still messy as ever, hiding the famous lightning both scar. His glasses always seemed to need repairing and they most always sat lopsided across his face. But the face was no longer that of a boy, but that of a man. It had hardened with age and hardship, as faces are liable to do. But he still possessed a type of boyish charm that would have made James Potter proud. It was that smile of his. How it curved up ever so slightly when he was doing something mischievous that the misses wouldn't approve of. Or when he looked upon someone he genuinely cared about, how it would somehow become that much broader, only to match his sparkling eyes.

He was still shorter than Ron, but Ron was taller than most everyone now.

The redhead had grown out his hair in a similar style to Bill. His face too had been hardened by age, marred by scars from the war. He was still slightly freckled, but the boyish trait he once held had almost completely disappeared. Ron was Ron, though. He worked full time with George and chased after birds constantly. Still so much a boy at heart.

But to Hermione, no matter how grown up they became, they were still her boys.

Her boys coming to her rescue on Halloween. Her boys talking incessantly about Quidditch. Her boys trying to copy her homework. They would always be red-faced and awkward. They would always be hers.

"We heard about what happened with you and Draco," Ron blurted out. A full grown man and still, had never applied tact to his actions.

The boys scooted closer, Harry taking her right hand in his.

"What Ron meant to say, Remus Flooed us this morning. We don't know the specifics, but he said you were a bit of a mess last night. What happened, luv?"

Hermione threw her left arm over her head, covering her eyes.

She felt like a fool, of course Remus would tell them. She hadn't thought to ask him not to.

"We're friends with him Hermione," Ron carefully picked her arms up off her face and looked at her with worry in his eyes, "But we'll defend your honor if we have to. Right, Harry?"

"Oh, Ronald. It's nothing quite so serious."

He looked relieved. He and Draco had become close since the war. She knew how hard it would be for him to not just act indifferent towards him, but to declare open fire? No, she would never ask that of him, even if she wished harm to befall Draco.

"Tell us what's happened, then?"

She sat up in bed, still holding Harry's hand. It took her all of ten minutes to explain to them what had happened. She left nothing out. Not because she was hoping for some sort of reaction, though she received many. But because they would continue to pester her about it until she had no choice but to tell them every small happening in excruciating detail.

Remus came in during her retelling and sat through the rest of it with a closed mouth and open ears.

"...And that's that. For whatever reason, I just wasn't enough for him," though she had tried rather valiantly to hold back her tears, at that moment she couldn't any longer. Voicing the fact that her love, her devotion, the years she had spent trying to make a relationship with Draco work, wasn't enough to make him happy, broke her.

Having to voice that aloud to Ginny or Luna would have hurt tremendously, but confessing it to three grown men, was devastating. She knew it was ridiculous, but it felt like admitting that she wasn't good enough. Not just for Draco, but for any man.

However, as soon as she began to cry, three pairs of clumsy, yet strong arms were around her. Three voices murmuring words of comfort and support, surrounded her.

When they pulled away, Ron handed her his handkerchief and whispered softly into her ear, lovingly, "You look like shite."

And despite herself, she laughed.

Wiping away her tears, she made a list of things for Harry and Ron to collect from the home she had made with Draco.

Drawers needed to be cleared out. Shelves needed to be picked through. Desks. Clothing. Toiletries. The life she had made for herself needed to be packed away into boxes, and then huddled into empty spaces around Grimmauld Place until she could find her own flat.

-------------

The boys Apparated to the front of the cottage Hermione and Draco had bought just a year ago.

On the outside, it was cheery, with its little rose garden that bloomed all year. The vines covering the rough build of the house. A chimney with little clouds of smoke rising into the air.

It was perfect.

They knocked and not two seconds later, there was Draco Malfoy, looking at his always had. Self-important and pompous.

He held a glass decanter in one hand. It was filled with an amber liquid that reeked of Firewhiskey.

"I assume this isn't a purely social visit, gentlemen?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

On the one hand, he wanted to throttle him for putting Hermione through pain. But at the same time, he wanted to talk to Draco, get his side of things. Maybe, there was some sort of miscommunication between the two of them? A misunderstanding? He could be the mediator, he could solve this, fix them. And everything would be right again.

"No, not today, mate."

Draco raised the glass to his mouth and took a deep sip.

"It's not even noon yet. A bit early to be smashed, isn't it?"

Ron still hadn't said a word.

The blond looked contemplative for a half of a second, before retrieving his wand from his trouser pocket and aiming it at his time piece.

The hands on the tiny clock moved forward and landed on a somewhat decent drinking hour.

"Satisfied?"

"Hardly," Ron finally snorted.

The three men looked each other over, sizing each other up. The air was thick, not incredibly so, but enough to know that if one of them put a toe out of line, a physical or magical fight would break out. And they all knew who would be on what side.

Ron had come to respect Draco and that respect, at first, was grudgingly mutual. After some time a friendship was born of it, though neither forgot the absolute distaste they once held for the other.

Holding Hermione's list in his hands he shoved it at Draco, "Hermione made a catalog of things she needed us to pick up."

They each smiled briefly, if the visit had been under more pleasant circumstances, they all would have had a good laugh and remarked on how utterly like her that was. But unfortunately, this was not one of those times.

Draco downed the rest of his drink and stood aside; letting the other two enter his home.

"Come in, you know where to find everything, I'm sure. You've been here enough times."

Again, they each smiled for the briefest of moments. They would still be friends after this moment, even if battle lines had been drawn.

After closing the door, Draco sat himself down in the nearest chair and continued the brooding that had been so rudely interrupted.

Hermione had been upset enough to send Potter and Weasley over to fetch her belongings. Though he would have been more then happy to have Flooed them to her.

And then it hit him, he had no idea where she was staying.

Clearing his throat, he called out into the house, "I suppose it really is none of my business, but if I wished to get in contact with Hermione, I would need to know where she is staying at the moment. Where might that be?"

He could hear one of the two of them making their way from one of the back rooms to where he was.

Ron stuck his head around the corner, "She's with Remus until she gets things straightened out." As quickly as his head had appeared, it disappeared and he walked back to wherever he had been before.

Without thinking, Draco balled his hands into tight fists. So tight, that the skin on each hand turned white at the knuckles.

It wasn't until he felt the slightest of sensations on this skin did he realize he was still holding his empty glass. And said glass had completely shattered in his grip. He was now bleeding and cursing quietly.

Quickly, he pulled out his wand and pointed it at the broken glass.

The pieces flew back together, making it whole once more.

Next, he pointed his wand at the cut across his palm. Slowly, the skin began to stitch itself together. Instead of a fresh wound, it now looked as though it had a day or two of healing.

He wiped away the blood on the arm of his chair.

Hermione was staying with Remus.

Simply thinking the words made him horribly angry. Out of all the places she could go, she chose to stay with him.

He ground his teeth together painfully. That choice was completely and utterly unacceptable.

But he had been the one who had pushed her there, surely, he shouldn't care.

But he did.

His head throbbed, as well as his hand.

She would not stay with that _man._

Not if he could help it.


End file.
